WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives

by Dan Millman

  There were many small lessons that awaited me each night, even in the early days. One night I made the mistake of complaining about how people at school just didn’t seem to act very friendly toward me.

  Softly, he said, “It is better for you to take responsibility for your life as it is, instead of blaming others, or circumstances, for your predicament. As your eyes open, you’ll see that your state of health, happiness, and every circumstance of your life has been, in large part, arranged by you — consciously or unconsciously.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, but I don’t think I agree with it.”

  “I once knew a guy like you:

  “I met him on a construction site in the Midwest. When the lunch whistle blew, all the workers would sit down together to eat. And every day, Sam would open his lunch pail and start to complain.

  “‘Son of a gun!’ he’d cry, ‘not peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again. I hate peanut butter and jelly!’

  “He whined about his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches day after day after day until one of the guys on the work crew finally said, ‘Fer crissakes, Sam, if you hate peanut butter and jelly so much, why don’t you just tell yer old’ lady to make you something different?’

  “‘What do you mean, my ol’ lady?’ Sam replied. ‘I’m not married. I make my own sandwiches.’”

  Socrates paused, then added, “We all make our own sandwiches.” He handed me a brown bag with two sandwiches in it. “Do you want the cheese and tomato or tomato and cheese?” he asked, grinning.

  “Oh, just give me either,” I jested back.

  As we munched, Socrates said, “When you become fully responsible for your life, you can become fully human; once you become human, you may discover what it means to be a warrior.”

  “Thanks, Soc, for the food for thought, and for belly.” I bowed grandly. Then I put on my jacket and got ready to leave. “I won’t be by for a couple of weeks. Finals are coming up. And I also have some hard thinking to do.” Before he could comment I waved good-bye and left for home.

  I lost myself in the semester’s last classes. My hours in the gym were spent in the hardest training I’d ever done. Whenever I stopped pushing myself, my thoughts and feelings began to stir uneasily. I felt the first signs of what was to become a growing sense of alienation from my everyday world. For the first time in my life, I had a choice between two distinct realities. One was crazy and one was sane — but I didn’t know which was which, so I committed myself to neither.

  I couldn’t shake a growing sense that maybe, just maybe, Socrates was not so eccentric after all. Perhaps his descriptions of my life had been more accurate than I’d imagined. I began to really see how I acted with people, and what I saw began to disturb me. I was sociable enough on the outside, but I was really only concerned about myself.

  Bill, one of my best friends, fell from the pommel horse and broke his wrist; Rick learned a full twisting back somersault that he’d been working on for a year. I felt the same emotional response in both cases: nothing.

  Under the weight of my growing self-knowledge, my self-image was sinking fast.

  One night, just before finals, I heard a knock at my door. I was surprised and happy to find toothpaste Susie, the blond cheerleader I hadn’t seen in weeks. I realized how lonely I’d been.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in, Danny?”

  “Oh! Yes. I’m really glad to see you. Uh, sit down, let me take your coat. Would you like something to eat? Something to drink?” She just gazed at me.

  “What is it, Susie?”

  “You look tired, Danny, but... ” she reached out and touched my face. “There’s something... your eyes look different somehow. What is it?”

  I touched her cheek. “Stay with me tonight, Susie.”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I brought my toothbrush.”

  The next morning I turned over to smell Sue’s tousled hair, sweet like summer straw, and to feel her soft breath on my pillow. “I should feel good,” I thought, but my mood was gray like the fog outside.

  For the next few days, Sue and I spent a lot of time together. I don’t think I was very good company, but Sue’s spirits were enough for both of us.

  Something kept me from telling her about Socrates. He was of another world, a world in which she had no part. How could she understand when I couldn’t even fathom what was happening to me?

  Finals came and went. I did well, but I didn’t care. Susie went home for spring vacation, and I was glad to be alone.

  Spring vacation was soon over, and warm winds blew through the littered streets of Berkeley. I knew that it was time to return to the warrior’s world, to that strange little gas station — this time perhaps more open and more humble than before. But now I was more sure of one thing. If Socrates cut at me with his sharp wit again, I was going to slash right back.

  BOOK ONE

  THE WINDS OF CHANGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  GUSTS OF MAGIC

  It was late evening. After my workout and dinner, I fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly midnight. I walked slowly through the crisp night air of early spring toward the station. A strong breeze blew from behind me, as if impelling me forward along the campus paths.

  As I neared the familiar intersection, I slowed down. A light drizzle had begun, chilling the night. In the glow from the warmly lit office I could see Soc’s shape through the misted window, drinking from his mug, and a mixture of anticipation and dread squeezed my lungs and accelerated my heartbeat.

  I looked down at the pavement as I crossed the street and neared the office door. The wind gusted against the back of my neck. Suddenly chilled, I snapped my head up to see Socrates standing in the doorway, staring at me and sniffing the air like a wolf. He seemed to be looking right through me. Memories of the Grim Reaper returned. I knew this man had within him great warmth and compassion, but I sensed that behind his dark eyes lay a great unknown danger.

  My fear dissipated when he gently said, “It’s good that you’ve returned.” He welcomed me into the office with a wave of his arm. Just as I took off my shoes and sat down, the station bell clanged. I wiped the mist off the window and looked out to see an old Plymouth limp in with a flat tire. Socrates was already headed out the door wearing his army surplus rain poncho. Watching him, I wondered momentarily how he could possibly have frightened me.

  Then rain clouds darkened the night, bringing back fleeting images of the black-hooded death of my dream, changing the pattering of the soft rain into bony fingers drumming madly on the roof. I moved restlessly on the couch, tired from my intense workouts in the gym. The conference championships were coming up next week, and today had been the last hard workout before the meet.

  Socrates opened the door to the office. He stood with the door open and said, “Come outside — now,” then left me. As I rose and put on my shoes, I looked through the mist. Socrates was standing out beyond the pumps, just outside the aura of the station lights. Half-shrouded in darkness, he appeared to be wearing a black hood.

  The office now seemed like a fortress against the night — and against a world outside that was beginning to grate on my nerves like noisy downtown traffic. I was not going out there. Socrates beckoned me again, then again, from out in the darkness. Surrendering to fate, I went outside.

  As I approached him cautiously, he said, “Listen, can you feel it?”

  “What?”

  “Feel!”

  Just then the rain stopped and the wind seemed to change directions. Strange — a warm wind. “The wind, Soc?”

  “Yes, the winds. They’re changing. It means a turning point for you — now. You may not have realized it; neither did I, in fact — but tonight is a critical moment in time for you. You left, but you returned. And now the winds are changing.” He looked at me for a moment, then strode back inside.

  I followed him in and sat down on the familiar couch. Socrates was very still in his soft brown chair, his eyes riveted upon me. I
n a voice strong enough to pierce walls but light enough to be carried by the March winds, he announced, “There is something I must do now. Don’t be afraid.”

  He stood. “Socrates, you’re scaring the hell out of me!” I stammered angrily, sliding back in the couch as he slowly came toward me, stalking, like a tiger on the prowl.

  He glanced out the window for a moment, checking for possible interruptions, then knelt in front of me, saying softly, “Dan, do you recall that I told you we must work on changing your mind before you can see the warrior’s way?”

  “Yes, but I really don’t think... ”

  “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated. “Comfort yourself with a saying of Confucius,” he smiled. “‘Only the supremely wise and the ignorant do not alter.’” Saying that, he reached out and placed his hands gently but firmly on my temples.

  Nothing happened for a moment — then suddenly I felt a growing pressure in the middle of my head. There was a loud buzzing, then a sound like waves rushing up on the beach. I heard bells ringing, and my head felt as if it was going to burst. That’s when I saw the light, and my mind exploded with its brightness. Something in me was dying — I knew this for a certainty — and something else was being born! Then the light engulfed everything.

  I found myself lying back on the couch. Socrates was offering me a cup of tea, shaking me gently.

  “What happened to me?”

  “Let’s just say I manipulated your energies and opened a few new circuits. The fireworks were just your brain’s delight in the energy bath. The result is that you are relieved of your lifelong illusion of knowledge. From now on, ordinary knowledge is no longer going to satisfy you, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You will,” he said, without smiling.

  I was very tired. We sipped our tea in silence. Then, excusing myself, I rose, put on my sweater, and walked home as if in a dream.

  The next day was full of classes and full of professors babbling words that had no meaning or relevance for me. In History 101, Watson lectured on how Churchill’s political instincts had affected the war. I stopped taking notes. I was too busy taking in the colors and textures of the room, feeling the energies of the people around me. The sounds of my professors’ voices were far more interesting than the concepts they conveyed. Socrates, what did you do to me? I’ll never make it through finals.

  I was walking out of class, fascinated by the knobby texture of the carpet, when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hi, Danny! I haven’t seen you for days. I’ve called every night, but you’re never home. Where have you been hiding?”

  “Oh, hi Susie. It’s good to see you again. I’ve been... studying.” Her words had danced through the air. I could hardly understand them, but I could feel what she was feeling — hurt and a little jealous. Yet her face was beaming as usual.

  “I’d like to talk more, Susie, but I’m on my way to the gym.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” I felt her disappointment. “Well,” she said, “I’ll see you soon, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey,” she said. “Wasn’t Watson’s lecture great? I just love hearing about Churchill’s life. Isn’t it interesting?”

  “Uh, yeah — great lecture.”

  “Well, bye for now, Danny.”

  “Bye.” Turning away, I recalled what Soc had said about my “shyness and fear.” Maybe he was right. I wasn’t really that comfortable with people; I was never sure of what to say. But in the gym that afternoon, I knew exactly what to do. I came alive, turning on the faucet of my energy full blast. I played, swung, leaped; I was a clown, a magician, a chimpanzee. It was one of my best days ever. My mind was so clear that I felt exactly how to do anything I tried. My body was relaxed, supple, quick, and light. In tumbling, I invented a one and one-half backward somersault with a late half twist to a roll; from the high bar, I swung into a full twisting double flyaway — both moves the first ever done in the United States.

  A few days later, the team flew up to Oregon for the conference championships. We won the meet and returned home to fanfare and glory — but I couldn’t escape the concerns that plagued me.

  I considered the events that had occurred since the other night’s experience of the bursting light. Something had certainly happened, as Soc had predicted, but it was frightening and I didn’t think I liked it at all. Perhaps Socrates was not what he seemed; perhaps he was something more clever, or more evil than I’d suspected.

  These thoughts vanished as I stepped through the doorway of the lighted office and saw his eager smile. As soon as I’d sat down, Socrates said, “Are you ready to go on a journey?”

  “A journey?” I echoed.

  “Yes — a trip, travel, sojourn, vacation — an adventure.”

  “No, thanks, I’m not dressed for it.”

  “Nonsense!” he bellowed, so loudly that we both looked around to see if any passersby had heard. “Shhh!” he whispered loudly. “Not so loud, you’ll wake everyone.”

  Taking advantage of his affability, I blurted out, “Socrates, my life no longer makes sense. Nothing works, except when I’m in the gym. Aren’t you supposed to make things better for me? I thought that’s what a teacher did.”

  He started to speak, but I interrupted.

  “And another thing. I’ve always believed that we have to find our own paths in life. No one can tell another how to live.”

  Socrates slapped his forehead with his palm, then looked upward in resignation. “I am part of your path, baboon. And I didn’t exactly rob you from the cradle and lock you up here, you know. You can take off whenever you like.” He walked to the door and held it open.

  Just then, a black limousine pulled into the station, and Soc affected a British accent: “Your car is ready, sir.” Disoriented, I actually thought we were going on a trip in the limousine. I mean, why not? So, befuddled, I walked straight out to the limo and started to climb into the backseat. I found myself staring into the wrinkled old face of a little man, sitting with his arm around a girl of about sixteen, probably off the streets of Berkeley. He stared at me like a hostile lizard.

  Soc’s hand grabbed me by the back of my sweater and dragged me out of the car. Closing the door, he apologized: “Excuse my young friend. He’s never been in a beautiful car like this and just got carried away — didn’t you, Jack?”

  I nodded dumbly. “What’s going on?” I whispered fiercely out of the side of my mouth. But he was already washing the windows. When the car pulled away, I flushed with embarrassment. “Why didn’t you stop me, Socrates?”

  “Frankly, it was pretty funny. I hadn’t realized you could be so gullible.”

  We stood there, in the middle of the night, staring each other down. Socrates grinned as I clenched my teeth. I was getting angry. “I’m really tired of playing the fool around you!” I yelled.

  “But you’ve been practicing so diligently, you’ve got it nearly perfect.”

  I wheeled around, kicked the trash can, and stomped back toward the office. I called back to him, “Why did you call me Jack, a while ago?”

  “Short for jackass,” he said.

  “All right, goddamn it,” I said as I ran by him to enter the office. “Let’s go on your journey. Whatever you want to give, I can take. Now where are we headed? Where am I headed?”

  Socrates took a deep breath. “Dan, I can’t tell you this — at least not in so many words. Much of a warrior’s path is subtle, invisible to the uninitiated. For now, I have been showing you what a warrior is not by showing you your own mind. You can come to understand that soon enough.”

  Now he led me to a cubbyhole I hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind the racks of tools in the garage and furnished with a small rug and a heavy straight-backed chair. The predominant color of the nook was gray. My stomach felt queasy.

  “Sit down,” he said gently.

  “Not until you explain what this is all about.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  So
crates sighed. “I am a warrior; you are a baboon. Now choose: you can sit down and shut up — or you can go back to your gymnastics spotlight and forget you ever knew me.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  I hesitated a second, then sat.

  Socrates reached into a drawer, took out some long pieces of cotton cloth, and began to tie me to the chair.

  “What are you going to do, torture me?” I half-joked.

  “No. Now please be silent,” he said, tying the last strip around my waist and behind the chair, like an airline seatbelt.

  “Are we going flying, Soc?” I asked nervously.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said, kneeling in front of me, taking my head in his hands and placing his thumbs against the upper ridges of my eye sockets. My teeth chattered; I had an excruciating urge to urinate. But in another second, I had forgotten all. Colored lights flashed. I thought I heard his voice but couldn’t quite make it out; it was too far away.

  We were walking down a corridor swathed in a blue fog. My feet moved but I couldn’t feel ground. Gigantic trees surrounded us; they became buildings; the buildings became boulders, and we ascended a steep canyon that became the edge of a sheer cliff.

  The fog had cleared; the air was freezing. Green clouds stretched below us for miles, meeting an orange sky on the horizon.

  I was shaking. I tried to say something to Socrates, but my voice came out muffled. My shaking grew uncontrollable. Soc put his hand on my belly. It was very warm and had a wondrously calming effect. I relaxed and he took my arm firmly, tightening his grip, and hurtled forward, off the edge of the world, pulling me with him.

  Without warning the clouds disappeared and we were hanging from the rafters of an indoor stadium, swinging precariously like two drunken spiders high above the floor.

  “Ooops,” said Soc. “Slight miscalculation.”

  “What the hell!” I yelled, struggling for a better handhold. I swung myself up and over and lay panting on a beam, twining my arms and legs around it. Socrates had already perched himself lightly on the beam in front of me. I noticed that he handled himself well for an old man.